The Major's Last Ride
by staringatthesky
Summary: The story of Jasper Whitlock's last ride, taking a group of refugees from Galveston to Houston during the Civil War, not knowing what was waiting for him on the return trip.


_A/N- This is just a one shot that I wrote when I was working on In Waking And Dream. My original intention for that story was to have chapters detailing Alice and Jasper's separate lives up until the point they met each other so I wrote this as a start to Jasper's story. I realised pretty quickly that that approach wasn't going to work (Jasper was a vampire for 70 years before Alice, there was so much in Alice's story that I wanted to write about that including both of them would have made it ridiculously long, and quite honestly I don't think I'm quite able to do justice to Jasper's character yet) so I just pretty much abandoned this. While I might come back to it one day since it obviously leads straight into Jasper's vampire history, I'm not planning on doing anything else to it any time soon. _

_However **Jalice 2254** has written me some lovely messages about my Alice story and wanted to read it, so here it is!_

* * *

_Galveston, Texas 1861._

"Major, they're waiting for you."

"One moment, Corporal." I finish lacing my boots and fold my trousers down, frowning at the mud that has stained them almost to the knees. They badly need laundering but they're my only pair at the moment, and until replacements arrive from home they will have to do as is. I stand and button my coat, taking my hat and looking across at McKinley. "Very well, McKinley, lead the way."

The boy is jumpy as he leads the way out of the tent and through the campsite. Everywhere I look men are taking the opportunity this brief break in the hostilities offer to attend to their personal business. Mending uniforms, shaving, taking care of their own minor wounds, delousing, writing letters, sleeping…I pretend not to see the women of doubtful virtue making their way among them. McKinley on the other hand can't tear his eyes away, and I wonder if I should say something to him, but decide against it. The battle just fought at Galveston was hard on our company and the boy, despite being only a corporal, has become my second in command for the moment and has no time for anything but following orders.

We are heading towards the Colonel's tent, but before we can reach it he comes rapidly towards us, flanked by his men. Both McKinley and I snap to attention and salute, waiting for a word.

"Ahh, Major Whitlock," he says, nodding to me. "At ease."

"Colonel," I respond, dropping my salute and nodding at McKinley to do the same.

He frowns at me briefly. "Dear Lord, Whitlock…you still don't look a day older than twenty. I'm on my way to the hospital tents- walk with me."

I fall into step beside him, my hands clasped behind my back. I'm still only nineteen, but I'm not telling him that. Jasper Whitlock, the youngest major in the Texas cavalry, that's me…even though I lied about my age to join back in '61 and they all believe I'm a good three years older than I am. Not that I believe in age as being anything other than a number these day. With all that I have seen and done these past two years I sometimes feel as though I've aged a thousand years since I rushed to join the glorious Cause.

Many of the officers are surprised by how young I look when they see me on foot and close by, with my face that I keep scrupulously clean shaven and my fair hair longer than the older men wear theirs, and wonder how it is I came to my rank and how I can command men older and more experienced than I. To be truthful I cannot fully explain it. It is not boasting to say that I have a gift for battlefield strategy and that is in large measure responsible for my rapid promotion, but alongside that there is the fact that I have always found it easy to command attention and more often than not people seem to follow my direction and do what I want them too.

"Your company was hard hit, I hear?" the Colonel says. For an old man he keeps a rapid pace and I lengthen my stride to keep up.

"Yes. We lost many, and much of the command has been injured," I say matter-of-factly, though it pains me to think of those men, _my_ men, who will be laid under the earth later today. Some of the wounded are hurt badly, and I wonder bleakly how may more we will lose, how many more of those wretched letters I will be forced to write to heartbroken families.

"Bad business," the Colonel mutters. "But the Confederacy has prevailed here, God be praised, and we must press on."

"Indeed, sir." I wonder what he wants and wish he'd get to the point. I don't have all day to trail around after him, I have my men to see to and the horses to check and all those letters to write, damn it…

"It's clear that your company won't be battle ready any time in the immediate future," the Colonel continues. "And you've been recommended as being good with civilians, a gentleman the ladies can trust…we've captured the city but the damage has been extensive, and the situation is far from stable. We need to evacuate the population Whitlock, and it's going to be up to you to provide a safe journey for some women and children refugees."

I keep my face blank, although inside I'm chafing with impatience. Women and children and elderly? They should have evacuated weeks ago! What were they doing, staying in such a dangerous warzone? However I nod my head, "As you command, Colonel."

"Excellent, excellent," he says rapidly. "I've put two of my men on rounding them up and having everyone ready to leave tomorrow morning. You'll be going to Houston. I've detailed three soldiers to accompany you, they are returning to their companies there and may as well make themselves useful on the way! I want you back here though Whitlock, as soon as you can. You have a good horse, I trust?"

"Yes sir, I do." Houston. That's about forty miles from here…with a group of refugees that will take days. "Will I take McKinley too, sir?" I gesture to the boy, who looks startled at being included.

"No, leave him here," the Colonel answers. "He can take over your duties while you're gone…write those letters and leave them for you to sign, look out for the men…"

"Very well sir," I keep pace. "If that will be all?"

"Yes, that's all. The refugees have been instructed to be in the square at first light and you must leave as soon as possible. I want them out of here! This city can't accommodate the army and the civilians too, and I don't know how long we'll hold…" He shakes his head. "Never mind all that. I believe you've done this type of thing before and have some skill at keeping everyone moving- I want them safe in Houston as soon as possible and you back here Whitlock."

"Understood, sir," I stop and salute, and he nods and marches on, leaving me with McKinley who looks frankly terrified at being left in charge for a few days.

"Don't look so afraid McKinley," I say briskly. "You're perfectly capable and there won't be much to do. No one will be moving from camp before my return. Just visit the men in the lines and see how they're getting along, visit the wounded. You'll do fine."

He seems to relax at my words and nods at me earnestly. "I'll do my best Major."

"Well, that's all anyone can ask," I sigh. "Now, if you would go back to our tent and check my bedroll and then go to the quartermaster and gather the necessary supplies for a…well, better make it six days, Lord knows how long the escort will take. I'll shall go to the lines and check the horse."

McKinley salutes and trots off towards our tent and I head off towards the horse lines. I need to check the horse's feet- the escort job will involve long days on uncertain roads and I cannot have the horse's shoes needing attention.

Sure enough, I'm met at the lines by one of the grooms I'm familiar with, Jeffrey. "Major Whitlock sir, glad you're here. It's Larkspur, sir, he's thrown a shoe." He seems anxious, I know many of the other officers will blame the grooms for such happenings, but I know it's hardly his fault and simply nod.

"Is he lame?" I don't wait for his answer, but move down the lines until I reach the broad chestnut rump of my stallion, Larkspur. He smells me and turns his head to snort at me, and I slap his flank and scratch him behind his ear.

"Well my boy, are you causing trouble?" I say to him, running my hand down his foreleg which he lifts obligingly. "You thought you needed new shoes?" There's no heat in the leg and the hoof looks normal, no stones or cracks. Larkspur nips at my back and I drop the hoof and stand up, looking at Jeffrey who is standing anxiously at the rear.

"He seemed sound when I led him out this morning," he says.

"Yes, he must have dropped it sometime late yesterday. He was fine out on the roads all day." I take the rope and back the horse out. He bangs his nose into my chest, whuffling at my pockets in search of treats, but he's going to be disappointed. Everything is in short supply now, and the sugar that I always treated him with at home is so scarce these days that I'd probably be court martialled if I fed it to a horse. "I'll take him over to the forge now. I'm going to be leading a convoy to Houston tomorrow Jeffrey, so if you have a moment I'd appreciate it if you could look out my tack and make sure it's clean and repaired."

I wish I had my own servant back again. Marius was a genius with horses, kept my equipment in excellent repair and could be trusted absolutely. But like so many he died in the summer typhoid outbreak, and since then I've been forced to rely on army grooms. At least Jeffrey is competent and conscientious, and I can trust him to take care of Larkspur and my other horse, Orion.

Larkspur, a spirited ride but a gentleman in the stable, is easy to shoe and at the forge I sit myself quietly on a barrel and watch as they expertly remove the other three shoes and make and fit four new ones. There are so many other things I should be doing, but I treasure the rare moments of solitude I can create in this chaotic military world and make the most of them. Sometimes being with my beloved horse is the best I can do.

I am at the town square at first light the following morning, but the crowd I am to accompany to Houston is, for the most part, already gathered. Mounted, I circle the edge of the crowd, assessing what I have to deal with. Primarily women and young children, the occasional elderly gentleman, house servants. While the ladies are at pains to hide their delicate conditions, there are several with bellies swollen enough to concern me with the walk I know we have ahead of us. Everyone has baskets and bundles, some have wheelbarrows or baby carriages or even goat carts; a lucky few have donkeys or ponies so old or decrepit that they have not been requisitioned by the army. There is one decent pony, but it is harnessed to a cart that holds two elderly ladies and a handful of babies and so, although I'm supposed to requisition likely animals for army use, I turn my head away. No doubt the army will take the beast once we reach Houston, but until then I feel that it's better serving the army here.

The three soldiers that have been assigned to assist me are there as well, and as soon as I see them I curse the Colonel to the depths of hell, because they'll be precious little help. One of them is wounded, his arm in a sling. One of them has certainly not seen his sixteenth birthday and can barely handle the flighty mare he's mounted on. And the last one clearly spent last night deep in his cups because even as I look at him he practically falls from the saddle and vomits into the bushes at the side of the square.

All three of them do their best to salute, and I nod acknowledgement, frowning darkly at the hungover one.

"I am Major Whitlock," I say. "You've been detailed to accompany these civilians to Houston under my command. It's a forty mile trek, and I'd like to get on the road as soon as possible." I watch as the third man shakily mounts, and I shake my head. "You," I say, pointing to the wounded man, who looks a steady rider at least. "You can lead. Slow and steady please, the ladies will be on foot and we have a long way to go. You other two, take the rear. No one will be left behind- if there is a problem one of you must ride up the column to find me. I'll be riding up and down to keep an eye out."

They do as I tell them without complaint, and after several delays we finally set off- a ragtag column of humanity marching along the road to Houston. I would like to keep everyone together, but it is not possible and soon the refugees are strung out along over half a mile of road.

Larkspur travels many more miles as he and I move up and down alongside the crowd, coaxing and cajoling and encouraging. I talk people into sharing food and water, and manage to get those who need it most places in the few carts so they don't have to walk as far. I take some of the small boys in turns to ride in front of me atop Larkspur, their little bodies quivering with excitement as they sit tucked securely under my arm. I assist in mending a broken wheel on a baby carriage and finding replacement shoelaces for people when theirs break. When one of the ladies big with child begins dropping further behind, her pale face pinched with pain, I get her in to the cart and find another woman experienced with childbearing to take care of her, hoping that we will not be held up by a birth. I settle arguments and squabbles, and soothe hysterics and tears, and as the sun begins dropping in the sky I commandeer a plantation house to shelter us for the night.

The plantation, like nearly all of them, is a ghost of its former glory. Inhabited only by women, the very old and the very young they welcome us hospitably, but I see the panic in the chatelaine's eyes. They have so little, but they offer it gamely and hide their relief when I courteously refuse. I have my own rations, although I end up eating very little of it when there are others going hungry. Once again I move through the refugees, finding those who can share and asking them to do so. Without exception they all respond generously, and once again I feel my heart lift at the courage and graciousness of these people, that battered remnants of the once glorious South.

We have come through the first day without any real incident. There are many sore feet and blisters and I instruct several of the more sensible servants and ladies to attend to them and offer assistance where needed. Two of the children have a rash that could be measles or could be the heat, but I separate them and their mothers just in case. The lady in the family way is huddled in a corner and when I go to her I see that she's white faced with pain and has bitten her lip bloody in an effort not to cry out. She blushes scarlet when she sees me coming near and turns her head away, but modesty be damned- she is in trouble and she is my responsibility.

"Miss Margaret," I say quietly. "Let me help you."

"I'm…f-f-f-fine!" she gasps.

"Is it the babe?" I ask gently. "It is your time?"

She shakes her head, and the tears run freely down her face. "The doctor said not til March, but it hurts…" Mortified, she covers her face in her hands.

"Do not fret my lady," I say reassuringly. "We shall find you some help, hmm?"

I haven't said anything in the least useful, but she appears to relax just at my tone of voice. She takes a deep breath and nods, and allows me to lift her gently in my arms and carry her to the room the plantation family have retreated to. The lady of the house, a mother herself several times over, takes charge briskly. She has me take the girl to a place beside the kitchen fire and assures me that she and her maidservant will be able to handle things. They have not had a doctor in these parts since the early months of the war and the women are used to dealing with emergencies alone.

Relieved, I slip outside and over to the stable. I had the child-officer take care of Larkspur for me, but his grooming is barely adequate and with a sigh I take up the tools and begin working on my horse. Larkspur is tired after his day and stands quietly, resting a hind leg and occasionally blowing gently at me. I am exhausted, but I relish the quiet and the solitude. No one demanding, no one needing, no one wanting…time for me to think, alone and undisturbed.

Not that my thoughts are pleasant company, this night. I am more disturbed by the birthing going on in the house behind me than I would have expected. Poor scrap of a child- born into what? A girl child, born to suffer heartbreak and loss? A boy child, born to grow up and be tossed into the teeming war machine? I am a soldier, a warrior who will fight my cause to the end, but I know in my heart that the South will lose this war. Even if we win, we will lose…so much death, so much destruction, so much innocence shattered, there can be no meaningful and glorious victory arising from what has been done here. I groom the chestnut horse harder, seeking relaxation in the repetitive and familiar physical actions, but it is a long time coming.

I manage to fit in a few hours of sleep, stretched out flat on the hard wooden floorboards of the entry hall, waking just before dawn to a gentle touch on my shoulder. It is the lady of the house, looking tired but composed.

"Major Whitlock," she says quietly. "Forgive me for speaking so indelicately, but Miss Margaret has had her child. A boy."

"They are both well?" I ask. I have only a passing acquaintance with the machinations of childbirth, but know enough to realise it can be a perilous experience for mother and child.

The lady nods. "Well enough. The child was born before time and is small, but seems healthy enough. They obviously cannot travel onward though, so they must remain here for the time being."

Hospitality is the unwritten rule of the South and the lady would not dream of anything but graciousness in the situation, but I doubt the addition of a woman just out of childbed is a welcome one. I climb to my feet. "I shall go and see her, and perhaps when I get to Houston I will be able to get in touch with some of her kin."

"Thank you Major," the lady says.

I rise to my feet and follow her back down to the kitchen. In normal times I would never dream of visiting a woman in her bed, particularly one who has just had a child, but in wartime so many social rules have fallen by the wayside.

"Miss Margaret," I say courteously. "Congratulations."

She beams at me. "Major! Thank you…is he not perfect?"

The baby is tiny, red and hairy and extremely unappealing, but I smile gamely at her. "His father will be so proud."

Her smile blooms again. "He will. And you've been so helpful Major, that I've decided that this baby must have your name."

I am touched by the sentiment. "Thank you Ma'am." I tap my fingers. "The lady has offered her home to you and the babe for the time being. I must continue on today, but I shall do my best in Houston to get in touch with your kin and let them know your whereabouts and your happy news." I write the names and address she gives me into my notebook and bid her farewell.

We are late starting out, despite my best efforts. Goodness knows the cavalry can lack discipline but organising this motley crew of women and children and elderly to move on is a different kind of trouble entirely. Eventually we are on the road though, and I do my best to hide my chafing sense of impatience and encourage as best I can.

The second day is slower, naturally, but we are further from danger now and spirits are generally good. The young boys eye the soldiers with hero worshipping eyes and vie with each other for the next turn atop Larkspur with me. As on the previous day I ride up and down the column, offering assistance when needed and coaxing and bullying people as needed to keep everyone on their feet and moving until the company rest breaks. I am thankful we have the carts and ponies we do, as decrepit as they are, for the ladies in the family way and the elderly who are suffering with the heat and the walking to take brief breaks in. Of the two children with rashes one is greatly improved and runs about with his sister but the other one is now running a fever and has the look of the very ill. I pray that it is not measles or typhoid or some other infectious disease.

The previously hung over soldier I've been so displeased with goes a long way to redeeming himself in my eyes late in the afternoon, when everyone's spirits and feet are flagging, when he suddenly bursts out into song, his voice a pleasing deep baritone that carries well and gives great cheer. He is still singing when the sun drops and I turn in at the next homestead to seek shelter.

Our accommodations on this second night are not as commodious as the previous night, but they are adequate and we have no choice but to make do. Many of the families are pushed out to take rest in the barn, a situation I find deplorable, but there is nothing I can do. I hope they rest and allow the horses sufficient peace to rest also. Larkspur is holding up gamely, but we still have some distance to go even before the return journey he and I will take.

It is difficult to cajole everyone to rise and prepare to leave on the third day. Feet are sore and tempers are fraying. Matters are made worse when it is discovered the fevered child died in the night. The mother is hysterical and I am forced to soothe and settle her until she will agree for me to arrange burial immediately. While I believe we will reach Houston by evening I cannot risk the rest of the company contracting disease by carrying a potentially infectious body with us through the heat of the day.

The plantation has its own burial plot so although we have no minister I am able to comfort the mother that the child is being buried in consecrated ground. As the senior officer I find myself presiding over the internment, saying the words of the burial prayers I have heard too often in the course of this devastating war. It is a tiny grave for a child barely out of dresses, and I find tears prickling behind my eyelids as I watch them cover the child with the earth. I have grieved and raged for so many of my men cut down in their prime, but burying this child who has barely even lived and being face to face with the mother's grief touches me deeply. This time there is no singing as I resolutely gather the refugees together and resume our weary tramp.

I am relieved to reach Houston without further incident, although once there I spend some time making sure all the refugees have somewhere to go. Many of them have kin here, and the army chaplain I manage to find also has friends and resources within the town. Again I put my powers of persuasion to the test as I coax those with much to offer hospitality to new acquaintances until they can find their feet in this city or return to Galveston once matters there are more stable.

I consider staying in Houston for the night and leaving in the morning, for I am tired and I'm sure the horse would appreciate the rest. But the knowledge of my men, wounded and leaderless back in Galveston, spurs me on. I search out a competent army groom to take care of Larkspur and take myself to the officer's mess for a hearty meal. I will eat and give the horse a brief respite, but we can cover many miles if we leave this evening.

The ride back towards Galveston is pleasant at first. The evening weather is mild and the brief rest and feed have reinvigorated Larkspur, who moves along the road at a good pace. He is a comfortable ride and I am briefly thankful to my father for always providing me with good horses- whatever else the old gentleman's faults might be he knows his horses.

It is the solitude that I love the most though. I need do nothing but tip my hat to the occasional passer-by, with no need for conversation. Despite my apparent aptitude for dealing with and managing people I find the constant hustle and bustle of the army life wearying. I miss quiet rides in the early morning and evening. I miss the solitary hours of pleasant study and work I used to indulge in. I miss being able to sit quietly with friends, whisky bottle to hand as we discussed the ways of the world. It is a life that I realise with an ache I will never be able to go back to…so many of those friends are dead already and there is no guarantee that I will see out the war without joining those legions of heaven. Even if I do survive, what kind of world will I be returning to with so many of my contemporaries laid prematurely under the earth? How can I reconcile the horrors of the battlefield with the gracious gentility of the parlour and study?

I force my thoughts away, for dwelling on what is gone and what may yet be lost leads to nothing but darkness and sorrow. I raise my head, and then slow the horse for ahead of me I see the figures of three ladies standing in the road. I frown a little, for their presence on this deserted stretch of road seems incongruous enough even without the extreme stillness of their persons. The wind blows gently and flutters the long tendrils of their hair and I am suddenly overcome with the most delicious scent of roses and musk and vanilla. I swallow hard, suddenly nervous.

"Can I help you ladies?" I am glad my voice comes out sounding deep and assured.

One of them steps forward. She is smaller than the others, her hair long and dark, with a most bewitching smile as she looks up at me in the twilight dimness. There is something about her eyes…but I cannot be sure what, and I am distracted by the enticing swell of white breast above her gown. Not something a lady would wear…but I look at her again and in the face of that wild, alluring beauty all thoughts of respectability leave my mind.

"Perhaps you can help us," she says, and her voice is like velvet. A smile curves across her face and I see her teeth, very white against her dark red lips. "My name is Maria, Major…and I do believe that you're just what we've been looking for."

She holds out a slender white hand and without any further thought I dismount from Larkspur, too distracted to pay attention to his wild eyed trembling and rigid stance.

"I am Major Jasper Whitlock," I say, and then I take her delicate hand in my large one, surprised to feel its iciness, and raise it to my lips as I bow. "At your service, ma'am."


End file.
